


Sweet Sixteen

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Comfort/Angst, Dubious Consent, Family Drama, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, POV John Winchester, Pre-Series, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Underage Prostitution, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 05:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12905217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: John was going slowly enough to get a glimpse of the hookers' faces. Some of them looked old and worn, and others looked no more than goddamnedkids.And then his heart gave a lurch in his chest and he nearly slammed on the brakes, remembering at the last moment to ease off so the car wouldn't veer. His hands trembled so badly he had to tighten his fingers on the wheel to keep them steady. He crawled along the curb, then slowed to a stop. The boy that had been standing there came around to the driver's side and leaned over the foggy window, one hand braced on the roof."Lookin' for company?"





	Sweet Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> **Underage prostitution discussed** \- if it may trigger you, please don't read!  
>  Language too, but hey, that's really peanuts in comparison...
> 
> [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda) awesomely betad this story, and gave as much encouragement as corrections and suggestions - thank you so much!

John navigated through the deserted commercial zone of Lawton, Oklahoma. Although it was nearly two a.m., he preferred to stick to empty back streets, because even though he had changed the plates on the Mazda he was driving, a hot car always made him a bit nervous, as plain and nondescript as it may have been. Never mind, tomorrow he'd pick up the Impala from where he stashed it in a partly-demolished farmhouse, ditch the Mazda, and him and the boys would be gone.

The boys. He smiled at the thought of seeing them again after almost three weeks. They kept in touch, of course, but phone calls weren't the same. And this last hunt was tricky, the vamp nest bigger than he assumed and also well-infiltrated into civilian population. He had to be off the grid most of the time, and on top of everything his phone died on him a few days ago. He didn't have time to do anything about it, because he was too busy shaking the Elk City PD off his tail.

It didn't matter, because he was getting home now, or rather, to the short-term rental apartment that was the boys' temporary home in Lawton. It was crappy, but not too crappy by their standards. It was cheap and the neighborhood seemed rather okay, and anyway, it wasn't like they had much of a choice.

And he trusted Dean to hold the fort. Dean always did. John didn't often stop to think about how much his eldest managed on his own; he was usually too caught up in the current hunt or chasing another lead to Mary's killer. But he thought about it now. Dean's sixteenth birthday was coming around in a little over a month; they should do something special for it. John chuckled to himself. Sweet Sixteen. Yeah, he was going to have a ball teasing Dean about _that_.

It was snowing last night and this morning, but the streets had been plowed and the snow piled up in dirty heaps on the sides of the road. John drove cautiously; skidding and crashing a hot car wasn't something he planned on doing. He passed hookers standing under the murky street lights. He wondered how they didn't freeze to death in their skimpy clothes. Bless gender equality, the few males he saw scattered along the curb were dressed far warmer. At least _they_ didn't have to wear miniskirts.

He was going slowly enough to get a glimpse of their faces. Some of the hookers looked old and worn – more so with their heavy makeup – even though he bet they were years younger than they looked. And others looked no more than goddamned _kids_.

And then his heart gave a lurch in his chest and he nearly slammed on the brakes, remembering at the last moment to ease off so the car wouldn't veer. He advanced down the street, took a right at the next turn, circled the block, and came back to the same stretch of road he passed through a moment ago. His hands trembled so badly he had to tighten his fingers on the wheel to keep them steady. He crawled along the curb, then slowed to a stop. The boy that had been standing there came around to the driver's side and leaned over the foggy window, one hand braced on the roof.

"Lookin' for company?"

John rolled down the glass and stared into the eyes of his eldest son. Even in the sad, hazy light he could see all the color draining from Dean's face.

"Get in the car," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. Dean went over to the passenger side, climbed in, closed the door and buckled the seat-belt. Then he just sat there, eyes front, chest heaving with short, rapid breaths. John said nothing as he peeled off the curb and onto the street. He didn't care about the hot car anymore; all he wanted was to get the hell home, and fast.

He didn't need to look over at Dean to know that he was terrified; and he was right to be, because John was going to tear him a new one the size of fucking _Texas_. What the _hell_ was that boy thinking?!

"Where's Sammy?" Somehow, he managed not to sound as pissed as he was feeling, but he was sure Dean wasn't buying it.

"Back at the apartment, sleeping. The wards and salt-lines are all up, and the lock's good. Sir," Dean still wasn't looking at him. From the corner of his eye John could see the kid's fingers fidgeting with the hem of his coat. There was something off about the coat he couldn't quite place, but he didn't have time to figure it out now. He tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed down on the gas pedal.

John found a parking spot about half a block down from the apartment building. He started walking briskly away from the car, without so much as turning his head to see if his son was following. As frightened as Dean might have been, he wasn't stupid; he knew better than to try and run off. Nonetheless, John listened for his son's footfalls on the frozen sidewalk, pleased to find Dean was just a few steps behind.

They went up to the fourth floor, and John let Dean unlock the door and go in first. The place was quiet and dark, save for a pale light from the naked bulb in the hallway. There were, indeed, salt-lines, laid neatly just inside the doorstep and glistening on the windowsills.

Dean started walking toward the hallway, but John stopped him. "Sit down," he said, gesturing at the shapeless couch in the tiny living room.

"I just wanna check on Sammy," Dean's voice was subdued.

"I'll check on him."

"Can I go to the bathroom, then?"

"Make it quick, then park your ass on that couch."

"Yes, sir."

The door to the only bedroom stood ajar, and John slithered in without opening it further so the light wouldn't disturb Sam. The kid was barely visible under a heap of blankets, and John gently pulled them down just enough to make sure he was sleeping soundly. But before he smoothed the covers back into place, he noticed something else, and pulled the blankets a little further to reveal the collar of Dean's winter coat. Then he knew why he felt something was off; Dean was wearing some old, thin bomber jacket that was already getting too small for him, and that he was probably holding for Sam to grow into. John adjusted the blankets over his youngest and sneaked in a light caress on his little head.

From beyond the closed door of the bathroom he thought he heard what sounded like vomiting, but before he could be sure, the noise of a flushing toilet covered it up. The water in the sink ran, then stopped, and the door creaked open. John allowed time for Dean to return to the living room before doing the same.

Dean was sitting on the couch, as ordered. He glanced up when John walked in, but dropped his eyes almost immediately. John turned on the overhead light – also a naked bulb, like in the hallway – then stood a few feet away from the couch and looked at Dean. Dean didn't look up.

"Just so we're clear," John said. "You were out there because you were doing what those hookers were doing? Or was there another reason?"

"No other reason, sir."

John didn’t really think there _was_ another reason

_Lookin' for company?_

But he hoped, against all odds, that Dean had an explanation – working his own case, getting himself laid, doing research for a fucking school project – anything other than that. He took a breath.

"Why?"

"Needed money."

"You have money. I left you with cash and a card."

Dean's fingers were lacing and unlacing. "You left me a hundred dollars three weeks ago, and the card maxed out the second time I used it. The crap heater in here broke down, and the landlord wouldn't fix it unless I paid him, because he said it was our fault. I thought we might be able to manage without it somehow, but it was snowing and Sam started to get this bad cough. Shoplifting's fine for groceries, but the drugstore keeps the syrups where you can't steal 'em, and anyway, the cheap ones hardly do nothing for him. The cops are all over the place here, so all I managed was one hold up, with the switchblade. But it only got me fifteen bucks and change. The landlord wants seventy for the heater."

Only then did John notice how cold it was in the damned apartment, and Sammy being covered with so many blankets _and_ with Dean's coat suddenly made sense.

"Why didn't you call me?"

Dean looked up. "I did." He didn't have to mention that the call went straight to voicemail. Which John hadn't even checked.

John was about to ask if Dean had tried calling Bobby, or Pastor Jim, and then didn't. Of course Dean wouldn't have, not after the talk John had with Bobby while they were driving out here, a talk – or rather, a shouting match – that ended with him throwing the cellphone down into the footwell at Dean's feet, cursing the entire Singer clan all the way back to the Founding Fathers, and growling that the Winchesters can handle anything on their own. _Anything_.

Dean had dropped his eyes again, found a loose thread poking out of a seam in his too-thin coat, and was plucking at it. His hands were trembling; John couldn't tell if it was because he was scared or just cold.

"How much do they charge… the boys on the curb…" Dean waited a moment for John to complete the question, but John couldn't quite do it.

"Some guys just wanna watch you get naked or jerk off, that's ten bucks. Or the guy might wanna touch you or jerk you off, that's fifteen. Hand jobs are also fifteen. Most of them want blow jobs, that can be either twenty bucks, or twenty-five, or even thirty if the guy has a real nice car," Dean's voice had a slight tremor to it, but otherwise he was relaying this information the same way he would have if they were discussing a hunt, or their plans for next week, or the shopping list. John's eyes were drawn to Dean's jeans; there were fresh wet splotches over the knees, and John felt sudden bile rise in his throat.

But retching would have to wait, because the way Dean rattled out the price list sounded too practiced. Way too practiced. "That wasn't the first time you've done this," he wasn't even asking. Dean's jaw clenched as he shook his head. "How long?"

"A year, maybe. Not all the time, just… a few nights here and there, when I couldn't get cash any other way."

 A year. _A whole fucking year_ his teenage son was working a corner like one of those painted whores, and John had no clue. Not a fucking clue.

"You make any money tonight?" His voice was hoarse as he forced the words out. Jesus Christ, he sounded like a fucking _pimp_. But what was he supposed to ask? How many goddamned pedophiles shoved their cocks into his boy's mouth?

Dean produced a thin stack of bills from his pocket. "Sixty bucks." He didn't count it. John figured he didn't need to.

Dean held the money, glanced at John to see if he was reaching for it, saw that he wasn't, and rose a little off the couch so he could drop the bills onto the shambling thing that was supposed to be a coffee table of sorts. Then he sat back down, leaning a bit forward with his elbows on his knees.

"I didn't… I just needed to do a couple more tonight," his voice was tight. "To get the heater fixed, and buy some non-junk food, and… it's almost Christmas, and Sammy…" his hands rose to cover the bottom of his face, the tips of the fingers meeting over the bridge of his nose, the thumbs supporting the jaw on either side. John could hear him draw a breath beneath the little tent of his palms.

There was one more thing he wanted to know. _Had_ to know. A thing that was stabbing thin icy needles in the pit of his stomach. "Dean, did you… did anybody ever…"

Dean closed his eyes. After a minute his voice came from under his cupped hands. "Twice. Monroe and Des Moines. When I needed rent money. Got a hundred and fifty dollars. Just twice, I swear to God."

John looked at him. Was, in fact, unable to look away. He remembered he was angry when he picked Dean up from that curb. No, not angry; he was fucking _furious_ , but now he couldn't, for the life of him, remember why. If there was somebody he should have been angry at, it was his own fucking self. His stomach was knotting and turning, his fists clenching. He wanted to punch himself, taste blood in his mouth, feel the pain on the outside as well as on the inside.

Dean let his hands drop away from his face, opened his eyes and looked at John. He blinked, and something rippled over his features. He pressed his lips together, stood up and started toward the hallway.

"Where are you going?" The clench in John's throat made his voice gruff.

"To pack my shit. You don't need a whore in your house. With your son," Dean was trying to sound defiant, but John could tell he was just barely holding back tears.

"You're my son, too."

"I'm a whore."

"You're not a whore."

"You can use another name for it if it makes you feel better, it doesn't change what I am," Dean took another step forward and John moved to block his path.

"You're not going anywhere."

Dean pulled his shoulders back. "You wanna beat me up first? Fine, go ahead. Just try not to mess up my face too much, it's bad for business."

John looked at his son, at his beautiful green eyes that were now shining with unshed tears, at his pretty lips that were now trembling just a bit, and thought about the God-knows-how many perverts that had his proud boy on his knees in some filthy back alley, with those beautiful green eyes looking up at them and those pretty lips around their cock. And he wanted to kill them all, go out there and hunt down each and every one and string them up by their own intestines.

But if he intended to punish the guilty, he had to start with the one who was really to blame.

To die would be easier than to bare the shame of what he made his own son do.

But Dean was still looking at him, and John realized there wasn't hate in his eyes, neither anger nor accusation. There was just pain and weariness. So much weariness. And a moment later Dean was in his arms, and John was hugging him so fiercely he feared he might crack Dean's ribs, but he couldn't let go.

Dean was stiff at first, but then he went almost limp, and John held him tighter, feeling Dean's body shaking, and lowered his face so he could put his cheek against Dean's head.

He wanted to comfort Dean, but what could he possibly have said to make it better, to make _any_ of it better? His child was forced to sell his body for food and warmth, and John couldn't even find one word of apology, not one.

So he just stood there and held Dean, sensing rather than hearing him crying softly into his chest, and hoped, against all odds, that his boy could feel that he was sorry, so very sorry, sorry beyond anything humanly capable of articulating.

"You're not going anywhere, son," he whispered into Dean's ear. "You're not going anywhere."

**Author's Note:**

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